Three weeks pass by in bliss.
And by bliss, I mean the most erotic, beautiful fuck fest.
Just kidding. I love the fucking, I really, really do. Ask Kolya and he’ll be giving a standing ovation.
But Bran and I have always had the fucking at the center of what we are. It’s why he even gave in to me in the first place.
Give yourself a pat on the crown for being a motherfucking elite seducer, Kolya.
However, that’s not the only strong element in our relationship anymore. Something changed after the first time he stayed over. Although I was the one who put forth that condition, I think he felt a sense of relief that I was forcing him to stop running.
I could be imagining it or deep into my delusions, but he really has this peaceful expression when I fall asleep strangling him or when he wakes up stroking my jaw.
Oh, I actually sleep on a bed now. Shocker, I know. It’s like the eighth world wonder and one of those mysterious breaks in history. I’m sure my previous useless therapists would have a field day with the causes.
I’m a simple man. I smell Bran and feel his hard muscles molded to mine, and I’m a goner. It’s blasphemy to expect me to sleep separate from him when he’s lying there like a beautiful prince.
He might attempt to push me away or pretend that I’m annoying and crushing him, but here’s the thing. Whenever I pull away from him in my sleep, I wake up to find his head on my chest and his arm wrapped around my middle. Or he’ll press his chest to my back, throw his arm on my waist, and bury his face in my hair.
He’s so fucking cute, I always want to swallow him whole, and I do, often.
I usually wake him up with my lips around his cock or my cock nudging inside him. He picked up on it and started trying to wake up before me just so he can suck me off first thing in the morning.
It’s not a competition I’m complaining about. In fact, I love how he gets that smug look on his face while giving me the sloppiest of sloppy blowjobs.
Over the past few weeks, Bran has become a bit more comfortable touching me and I don’t always have to initiate sex anymore.
If he’s in the mood, he definitely makes it known either by attacking me as soon as I walk inside the apartment or with his constant texts that mimic my clingy nature.
He can also be surprisingly possessive—though not as unhinged as I am since I literally threaten to break the arm of anyone who touches him. The other day, I ran into Simon at one of the coffee shops and he started being touchy as usual before I pushed him away.
Turns out, Bran saw it and sent me this gem of a text.
You better remember who the fuck you belong to, Nikolai.
Did I print that text and frame it? Possibly.
I fucking love that he’s been more forward lately. Not to the point of talking to me in public—God forbid anyone knows about us. But he’s getting there.
I don’t mind. Much. I love that I’m his secret. I love that he’s aloof and in complete control when in public, but he falls apart on my tongue, fingers, and cock in private.
I love that he steals glances at me when everyone is looking, then whispers how much he needs me to fuck the daylights out of him when it’s only the two of us.
He’s mine and that’s all that matters.
I’m the only one who knows he’s a noisy motherfucker during sex, and that’s all I care about. Still, I make sure to decorate his skin with hickeys so others know he’s owned. I take my time turning them deep purple until he’s whining and add new ones every night. The earful he gives me afterward is worth it.
There’ll be a day when he’ll come out. I know it. I feel it in his eyes when we’re in public. I see it in his body language when he angles himself in my direction as if he wants to walk to me, hug me, and kiss me. He stops himself every time, but that’s looking more painful for him lately.
He’ll break one day and I’ll be there to pick him up with open arms and an open mouth.
I’m wearing him down and he’s totally falling for me.
Okay, I’m being delusional again. While he doesn’t actually love me, he cares.
Sometimes more than necessary.
So here’s the thing, Bran despises the fights and makes that known every time as he patches me up and puts ointment on the bruises.
He also hates how chaotically beautiful I am—though he probably wouldn’t call it that. He can’t stop nagging about all the shit I leave lying around or the dishes in the bathroom—what? I had a snack while soaking in the Jacuzzi—or whenever I shake my wet head. I only do that so he’ll dry it for me. Some would argue I also fight so he’ll be so adorably worried about me.
Most importantly, he replies to my ridiculous texts that go the line of:
ME
Did you know there are like so MANY Greek Gods?
BRAN
Is that so?
Yeah. How am I supposed to keep up? Why are there so many?
How dare they?
Right? Speak some sense into them, especially that dick Zeus. He needs to stop having so many children and raping women left and right. Father of gods, my ass.
I’ll have a very stern conversation with him.
Do you really think of me as him? I’m wounded.
My sincerest apologies. It was bad form to even make that comparison.
You’re going to have to repeat that apology with your lips wrapped around Kolya. You know, since he’s sulking and shit.
You could’ve said you wanted me to suck your cock instead of starting a whole drama.
No, no, it’s not about that. Kolya is REALLY hurt.
I’ll make it up to you.
Now?
I seriously can’t with you.
Is that a yes?
See you in an hour.
I jump down through the ropes after I’ve pummeled someone to near death, ignoring all the screams and the roaring crowd as I drink from a bottle of water Jeremy passes me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I pour water on my head and shake it, then smile—imagining Bran pinching the bridge of his nose and saying, “I seriously can’t with you.”
“Niko?” Jeremy watches me closely. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about another fight?”
“Nope. One is enough.” I shove the bottle against his chest. “Laters, Jer.”
“Wait.” He falls in step beside me as we walk down the tunnel and throws an arm over my shoulder. “What’s up with you lately? You barely come back to the mansion and you’re acting suspicious.”
“Busy, busy.”
“With what? Or more accurately, with whom?”
I pause, coming to a stop in front of the locker room, then face Jer. Hmm. He’s my best friend, and usually, I’d tell him all about the fuck fests and the weird adventures. Even though he couldn’t care less for the details, he listens without judging. Except for telling me that I’m crazy sometimes, which is true.
The point is, I’m starting to feel a little bit restless about this secret. I love having Bran all to myself, but I don’t like that no one knows. Sometimes, Kill looks at me weird as if he figured everything out, but he always has that psycho look and I definitely don’t trust him not to broadcast everything to the world if I tell him anything.
If there’s anyone I can trust with my secrets, it’s Jeremy. I was fourteen when I realized I really loved both dick and pussy. That young, yup. Jeremy is straighter than straight—no doubt about that—and he’s five years older, but I always bugged him. Everywhere he went, I was there, annoying the fuck out of him with my antics until he liked me. It’s my modus operandi, deal with it.
Anyway, he’s the first one I told that I thought I liked both girls and guys and he wasn’t surprised. Let’s just say he and Dad understood Kolya before I came to terms with his moody-prick era.
Jer kept it a secret for like a year, until my parents found out and I held a coming-out orgy party. Jeremy definitely left that one as early as he possibly could. Kill stayed.
So, the thing is, he’s like Secret Keeping 101.
I stroke my necklace and narrow my eyes on him. “How do you know it’s someone who’s keeping me busy?”
“The smiling at your phone like an idiot more often than not. Also…” He taps his nape. “You usually have a hickey here. You can’t see it, but whenever you pull your hair up, it’s visible.”
I touch the back of my neck. That sly fucking bastard. He’s been leaving hickeys all this time? And here I thought he just loved kissing me there.
“Jer.”
“What?”
“I can’t take this, he’s so fucking adorable.”
“For leaving a hickey?”
“For staking a claim and being sneaky about it while complaining that I leave too many.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “It’s a guy?”
Ah, fuck. I didn’t plan to disclose the gender, but hey, as long as he doesn’t know the name, all is good. No one would suspect it’s Bran. He’s such an uptight dickhead and anyone with two brain cells would think I’m nowhere near his type.
I nod with a grin. “The most beautiful guy ever.”
“You like him?”
“Sure as fuck.”
“How much do you like him?”
“Enough to be exclusive.”
“Wow. A first.”
“I know, right? I’m all for monogamy now.”
“And you still haven’t introduced him to me?” He raises an eyebrow. “And here I thought I was your bro.”
“Well…thing is. He’s still all chained in the closet and shit, so that’s a no for now.”
“I won’t tell. I didn’t when you wanted to keep your sexuality a secret.”
“This is different.”
I was never ashamed of my sexuality. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t an experimentation phase before telling my family. Bran seems to struggle with how much he loves sucking dick and being fucked in the ass. Like he really, really gets all panicky whenever we’re close in public or when I go to watch his games and try to see him after. So I stopped that altogether so as not to stress him out.
I’m not sure why he’s so scared about admitting it out loud.
I wonder if it has to do with his long showers and the damn locked bathroom door.
Sometimes, I catch him looking at his feet, completely zoned out until it turns a bit freaky. Other times, he’ll have these random nicks of the razor against his neck and even his thighs and balls. He shaves down there—of course. He’s so groomed and loves being spotless. He also started shaving my face for me because, apparently, I don’t do it well enough. It feels so fucking hot whenever he sits on the counter and traps me between his muscular thighs to shave my face.
He’s never cut me, not once, but he seems clumsy with himself.
I bought him a new electric shaver that doesn’t cause cuts, but he says he prefers the razor.
It’s starting to give me the creeps for real whenever he has those, as small as they are.
Jeremy watches me for a beat, arms crossed and brow furrowed. “You’re okay with that?”
“With what?”
“Being in the closet with him. You already came out, so you’re under no obligation to be shoved in the dark with him.”
“He’ll come out one day.”
“And you’re happy to wait? As long as it takes?”
“If it’s him, yeah. I guess.”
“Okay.” He clutches my shoulders. “I just want you to know that you deserve to be loved in the light, Niko. Just like everyone else.”
“Pfft. He doesn’t love me.”
“I don’t like this guy.” Jeremy narrows his eyes. “You’re being exclusive for the first time in your life and keeping it a secret for his sake and he doesn’t love you? What is he? An idiot?”
“Hey, don’t call him that.”
“You’re defending him? Wow. Where’s my brutish friend Niko and what have you done to him?”
“I’m a changed man, Jer.” I grin. “Gotta go. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Do you have to go? I thought we were discussing how to bring Landon down after everything he’s done.”
I wince. So I might have been the one who delayed the Heathens’ plans to take vengeance against Landon King. I have to do it, and I will, because he’s a motherfucker, but I can’t help thinking about Bran’s reaction.
All this time, I’d hoped they were enemies, and while they don’t hang out much, they text each other all the fucking time.
Or more like Landon checks on Bran in a neurotic fashion, and my lotus flower gets this little smile on his lips whenever he reads his asshole brother’s texts.
He said they’re different but they’re twins and that’s a bond for life.
I suppose he wouldn’t appreciate me punching his brother into an early grave, even if he deserves it.
“Just plan it out and let me know,” I tell Jer. “I have more important shit to do.”
“Baby, I’m home!”
Did that sound so domesticated?
Well, I do think of the penthouse as home now, which is weird. Bran also texted ‘I’ll see you at home’ earlier today, so at least I’m not the only one thinking it.
I remove my T-shirt and toss it on the floor, then, thinking about the asshole’s nagging, I pick it up and dunk it on the chair. Not ideal, but it’s a compromise.
My brow furrows when I don’t find him in the kitchen busy being a Mary Sue. He’s so anal about the meals he makes. Bran is the type of cook who’ll go out at ungodly hours just to have his perfect ingredients.
He’s an excellent cook. I just wish he’d cut himself some slack.
And not only about cooking, but also lacrosse, his gazillion charitable activities, and painting. He’s meticulous about everything, and he’s so ridiculously hard on himself, it’s starting to raise red flags. No one should be that perfect and think they’re not. Literally no one.
Sometimes, I doubt that he even likes his body, because he’s so quick about putting on clothes the moment we’re not fucking. It’s as if he doesn’t like looking at those gorgeous, perfectly toned muscles.
It’s impossible to see him half naked. The guys at the Heathens’ often parade half naked after showers or around the pool. Bran isn’t a fan of swimming, probably because he has to dress down for it.
I wish he’d talk to me more. While we often have conversations during breakfast or dinner, there’s a pattern I’ve noticed.
Whenever I ask something about him, he subtly turns the conversation so it’s about me instead.
He loves asking me questions about my parents, my siblings, my life in NYC, and even my role in the Heathens. Whenever I talk, he always listens with keen interest.
However, when I try to get to know him, he’s like a blank slate. He prefers talking about his friends and asshole brother instead of himself.
Which is annoying, to say the least.
It’s strange that he’s not in the kitchen. Is he not here yet?
I narrow my eyes. He said he was playing stupid video games with Mia earlier, so he better not have lost track of time.
And no, I’m not jealous of my baby sister.
Much.
I head to the guest room down the hall that he turned into a mini art studio. He said that since he’s spending more time here than at the Elites’ mansion, he can at least be productive and work on his art.
And seriously, that’s one of the best decisions he’s ever made. I love sneakily watching him being all concentrated as he does these bold strokes of color. I don’t understand them, but they look pretty and, most importantly, he looks hot as fuck when he’s in the zone.
He has this picturesque mountain painting that he’s been working on, but he doesn’t look pleased in the least when he does.
I open the door, ready to jump him from behind and attack his ticklish sides until he bursts out laughing. The sound is so rare that I can’t resist any chance to make it happen.
Usually, he laughs or smiles effortlessly whenever I’m telling him about my past adventures in school or with Mom and Dad, so I need to narrate more of those tonight. I even called Mom to ask about any shenanigans I might not remember…
My hand falls from the knob when I find him standing in the center of the room, in front of a canvas full of chaotic black strokes. His palette is on the floor, smudged in black as if he poured it out to murder all the other colors.
Splashes of black stain his feet and his khaki pants and even his usually spotless white shirt.
This isn’t like him. Bran is so organized and despises the idea of chaos. So to see him standing in the middle of it is not normal.
I slowly approach him and catch a glimpse of him staring at the canvas with a blank face. His hand pulls at the back of his hair so harshly, his nape is red, and his knuckles are white.
“Lotus flower?” I call, but he doesn’t make any sign of acknowledging my existence.
So I move in front of him, blocking his view of the canvas.
He looks straight through me as if his body is here, but his soul is floating somewhere else. I reach for his hand and pause when I feel how stiff he is, as if he’s hardening his body against a threat.
What the fuck is messing with you, Bran?
I have to apply pressure to peel his fingers from his hair one by one. My chest squeezes when I see brown strands in his hand.
“Brandon?”
I circle his nape, stroking the spot he abused. “Baby, look at me.”
My lips brush against his and they twitch. When I pull back, I find him watching me with bemused, lost eyes.
“Nikolai? When did you get here?”
“Just now,” I lie, my fingers still caressing his nape. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Your skin is pale and you’re standing in the middle of a mess.”
He looks at his surroundings as if he’s seeing it all for the first time.
Little by little, light blooms back behind his irises and he winces. “Bloody hell. Sorry.”
“Stop fucking apologizing.” I breathe harshly, watching him closely, trying to find a trace of the zombie version from a moment ago.
“Sorry…uh, I mean sorry. Jesus…” he trails off. “You should go. I’ll clean up.”
He starts to move, casting his gaze anywhere but at me.
My hold tightens on his nape and I clutch his jaw with my free hand so he’ll look at me. “What happened?”
An unnatural shine covers his eyes and it’s so similar to when he becomes panicked after I touch him in a semi-public space. “It was…an accident.”
“It doesn’t look like an accident.”
“I just dropped it. It’s nothing.”
He pulls away from me and grabs the palette then carefully places it on a few tissues on his sketching table.
For a few seconds, he remains there, hand gripping the edge of the table and his back crowding with tension as if he’s fighting his demons and shoving them back to where no one can see them.
When he turns around, he seems more like himself, and this time, he looks at me, like really looks at me, and instantly, his lips purse with disapproval. “Were you fighting again?”
I make an affirmative sound, not bothering to use my state as an excuse for him to touch me.
There’s something wrong with him, and the more he hides it, the clearer I see it. But if I ask him about it outright, he’ll just deflect and retreat behind his high walls. Or worse, he’ll revert back to his old habits and run away.
But I can’t take this anymore. I can’t watch him break in silence and do nothing.
Bran glides wet wipes over his hands, cleaning away the black paint, then walks to me, clutches me by the jaw, and rotates my head from left to right. “You seriously need to stop fighting. One day, you’ll really get hurt. You’re not immortal.”
He presses his finger against a bruise on my jaw and I wince.
“Does it hurt?” he asks with a note of concern that he obviously doesn’t have for himself.
“If I say yes, will you kiss it better?”
“I give up.” He releases me with a sigh. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”
“I’ll do it myself. I need a bath anyway.” I walk to the entrance and glance back.
Bran watches me with a wretched expression, his body is angled my way like every time we’re in public, and then he opens his mouth, but just like all those times, he closes it again.
“You have something to tell me, baby?”
I expect something. Anything, but he shakes his head. “I will…clean up and fix dinner.”
I say nothing as I storm out and into the bathroom. I should be used to his methods at this point, but I don’t like it.
The whole fucking thing is making my skin crawl.
I sit in the Jacuzzi for what seems like forever, but it must be like half an hour. The bubbles echo around me, but there’s nothing relaxing about them, so I turn them off to think in silence.
My mind fills with thoughts about the reason behind Bran’s state from earlier, but no matter how much I think about it, I come up empty.
With a sigh, I lean back and grab my phone from the side of the tub and check my texts, mostly from the group chat with the guys.
KILLIAN
Where are you, Niko?
JEREMY
He’s busy. Let him be.
GARETH
Niko busy? And you’re not there to keep him in check?
JEREMY
Let’s say he doesn’t need my services with his recent endeavors.
KILLIAN
It’s the ED situation, isn’t it?
GARETH
Kill, the fuck? He’ll just flood the group chat with dick pics.
ME
Kolya says hi, motherfuckers.
I send one just to fuck with them.
The door opens and I look up to find Bran standing in the entrance. He’s changed into flannel pajama pants and a white T-shirt, looking like a Christmas present.
“I…wanted to make sure you weren’t meditating in the water.”
“I’m not.” I close my eyes and lean my head against the cushion.
No idea why, but I’m mad. It’s not the first time he’s hid himself from me, but I’ve never seen him in that state, either.
The fact that he refuses to let me in even though I’m a damn open book is messing with my fucking head.
I really, really hate fucking complicated.
Movement echoes around me and I remain still, vehement about trying to ignore him for once.
The splashing of water forces me to open my eyes just in time to see Bran climbing into the bath, entirely naked.
“What are you doing?”
“You always ask me to join you. Is it different this time?” he asks even as he sits down and stretches his legs out on either side of me.
“Do what you want.” I try to sound unaffected, which is hard when he looks so stunningly beautiful.
At this point, it’s safe to say I’ve learned every ridge of his muscles and where his moles are—upper left shoulder, above his right hip, behind his right knee, on his left knee, and just beneath his jaw.
Not that I’m obsessive or anything.
He nudges my thigh with his foot. “Are you mad at me or something?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“You’re not jumping my bones, for one.” He smiles, but it’s forced. “Are you losing interest?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Hmm.”
He’s silent for a second. “What’s this about? Is it because I told you to stop fighting?”
“I won’t do that.”
“I can tell.”
“As soon as your cousin Creighton comes back to school, I’ll bloody his face, not because of what happened to me, but because he dared to punch you that day. I’ll also fight your precious psycho brother and beat him to a fucking pulp, so you better mentally prepare yourself.”
He gulps, his throat bobbing up and down. “Don’t do that…please.”
“What are you willing to do to stop me?”
“What do you want?”
“Tell me what happened when I got here, and don’t say it was an accident or it was nothing, because I don’t buy that bullshit.”
His face pales and he goes still, his chest rising and falling in a fast rhythm before he breathes slower. “It’s…really nothing.”
“We’re done here. Get the fuck out and leave me alone.”
Bran’s lips part as he blinks at me. So, no, I’ve never really spoken to him in that tone. I always clown around when he’s his grumpy, uptight self, but I’m just sick of this.
I can’t help thinking about what Jeremy said, and it’s messing with my head.
“Nikolai…” Water splashes as he scoots over so that he’s kneeling between my legs and then wraps his arms around my neck.
I meet his wide blue eyes, and for the first time, I don’t soften at the mere view of his face or the heat radiating from his body.
For the first time, I don’t melt into a puddle just because he’s saying my name or touching me.
“Get out.”
He shakes his head and tightens his grip. “I’m sorry.”
“Why the fuck do you keep apologizing as a knee-jerk reaction? It’s fucking pathetic.”
He flinches and drops his arms to either side of him. “I’ll…just leave.”
“Go right ahead. Run away like you do best.”
“What the hell do you expect from me? I try to make it up to you and you lash out. I’ve done nothing to be spoken to in that tone.”
“Nothing? You’re literally hiding me away like I’m your dirty fucking secret. Like you’re ashamed of being with me in front of your precious friends and family, and on top of that, you’re concealing yourself from me. You call that fucking nothing?”
“You said you were okay with it.”
“Maybe I’m not anymore.”
His lips tremble. “Are you…leaving me again?”
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t love it!” His voice rises and his hand shakes as he looks at me with eyes so fucking sad, it pulls on the heart I’m supposed to be hardening. “Don’t leave me.”
“Then give me something. Anything. I won’t be kept outside your walls. That’s not how this fucking works.”
“Why would you want to learn about me?” He pulls on his hair, fingers tugging until his face is all red. “Just why?”
I get on my knees and shove his hand away. “Stop hurting yourself or I swear to fuck—”
My words are cut off when I catch a glimpse of a Band-Aid beneath his thick watch that he always has on—even when he sleeps. He said it was a gift from his Mom and holds sentimental value and I figured he’s a momma’s boy who loves having a memory of her at all times.
Right now, however, I realize how naive I’ve been.
I clutch his wrist and his eyes grow in size as I start to remove it. Bran goes ballistic and tries to wrench his wrist free. He even punches me in the chest and tries to kick me.
But he doesn’t have a chance. He might be an athlete, but I’m much bigger than him.
I shove him against the side of the tub, my knees on either side of his thighs, caging him in place as I snatch his wrist.
“Don’t, Nikolai. Don’t!” He speaks in a tone I’ve never heard before, all broken and full of panic before he whispers, “Please, I beg you, don’t see that part of me…”
I keep my eyes on his lost ones as I tug the watch free, sending it flying across the floor.
Sure enough, there’s a Band-Aid around his wrist.
“Please,” he begs again, his hand in mine trembling, curling, flexing, twisting away. “Please…”
I rip it off in one go and all air whooshes out of my fucking lungs.
The skin is red over a cut that slashes through the line in his wrist. A few other older cuts line his skin, horizontal to the first, methodically put so they’re never wide enough to exceed the strap of his precious watch.
His hand goes limp in my grip and I stare at his face. Only, he’s looking down at the water, his head bowed, his shoulders defeated.
Jesus fucking Christ.
All my anger disappears. On its behalf, a loathsome feeling rips through me like wildfire.
Fucking fear.
Those nicks of the razor were not a coincidence. They were a sign.
“What’s the meaning of this?” I ask in a voice I don’t recognize. “Fucking look at me, Brandon!”
He slowly raises his head, his lips trembling.
“You cut yourself?” My words are low, but they’re so loud in the silence. “Why?”
“Because I’m fucked up.” His voice sounds like death’s lullaby, anguished and shattered. “Because I look at myself in the mirror and get the urge to shatter it to pieces. Because I’ve been haunted by the bitter taste of nausea and self-loathing for so long, I don’t know how to live without them. I was doing fine, pretending and putting on a façade, so why the fuck did you ruin that? Why did you come into my life and destroy every wall I built and ruin every lie I told myself? Why do you touch me like I’m beautiful? Why don’t you hate me when I can’t stand my-fucking-self?”
“I can’t hate you, baby. It’s impossible.” I lift his wrist up and brush my lips at the edge of the cut.
A whimper falls from his mouth and he throws himself at me. I stagger but he keeps me in place by wrapping his arms around me.
His fingers dig into my skin and it hurts as he squeezes me against him. His trembling body fuses to mine and he breathes harshly into my neck.
“Baby? You okay?”
“Please…” His voice is muffled. “Please let me hold you like this. It doesn’t hurt when you touch me.”
I grab onto him, pressing him further into me, harder, closer, until I’m not sure where I end and he begins.
Seems that Bran runs way deeper than I thought, but as he hangs on to me as if I’m his only anchor, I know that I’ll never let him go.
Not even if I burn with him.
For him.
In him.
I’d willingly catch fire if he so much as asked me to.
